Behind His Eyes - Convicted: The Missing Years (9 page)

Standing confidently, Tony’s dark eyes shot toward Brent. He hadn’t mentioned the false imprisonment charge. Turning back toward the judge, Tony replied, “I do, Your Honor.”

“Do you also understand that you may not leave the country before or during these proceedings?”

“I do.”

“Very well, it is the opinion of this court that bail will be set at—”

“Judge Jefferies,” Marcus Evergreen interrupted. “While I want to believe Mr. Rawlings that he will not flee, he definitely has the means, and due to recent events, the ability to disappear. We recommend that Mr. Rawlings’ request for bail be denied.”

“Thank you for your recommendation, Counselor. This is my courtroom, and it is my opinion that Mr. Rawlings has ties to this community, as well as a family. I have decided to grant bail in the amount of $10,000,000.”

Tony’s shoulders relaxed as he flashed a grin at Brent. It was one thing to have a promise of bail: it was quite another to have it said aloud in court.

Mr. Evergreen pleaded, “Judge, then we ask that Mr. Rawlings surrender his passport into the custody of the court until such time when all the proceedings have completed.”

“Mr. Rawlings, will that be necessary?”

“No, judge, I will not leave the country. I intend to be near my family.”

“I believe you have your answer, Mr. Evergreen. Now, Mr. Rawlings, you are aware that you have a right to counsel, and if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”

Brent replied, “Mr. Rawlings has counsel, Your Honor.”

“Very well, we’re done here. Next…” Judge Jefferies proclaimed with a strike of his gavel, allowing Tony to walk as a free man out the doors of the courtroom. Suddenly, the stillness of the nearly empty room was replaced with a gallery of reporters shouting questions.

“Mr. Rawlings, tell us your side of this story.”

“Was your wife trying to kill you—again?”

“Where have you been?”

“Why did you remarry?”

Tony and Brent remained silent as they pushed through the crowd, exited the Johnson County District Courthouse, and slipped into a waiting car. Eric smiled into the rearview mirror as he sat behind the steering wheel. “It’s good to have you back, Mr. Rawlings.”

“Thank you, Eric, it’s good to be back. Take me to the hospital. I want to see my wife.” Tony turned to Brent. “What the hell was that false imprisonment charge?”

Brent looked up from his phone. “I just heard about it minutes before we went into the courtroom.”

“Who the hell did I restrain?”

“We can get that charge dropped once we produce the tapes. Don’t worry about it.”

Tony tried to concentrate, but concerns about Claire kept interrupting his thoughts. “Wait—what are you saying? Who am I charged with imprisoning? I didn’t imprison Catherine.”

“Tony, concentrate on Claire and Nichol. Let me worry about this.”

“Two counts at twenty years a piece seem worthy of my concern.” Tony sighed. “Fine. I still can’t believe it about Sophia. Did you do what I asked?”

“Yes, Derek’s parents were contacted and Rawlings Industries has offered to help in any way with the arrangements.”

“Good.” Tony’s mind went back to his wife. Roach’s reports had gone to Brent and ultimately to Tony throughout Tony’s seventy-two hours of incarceration. Roach had accessed the hospital’s network, as well as Emily and John’s phones. He was getting an array of medical notations from the hospital and personal comments from their text messages. The latest information was that Claire was awake, speaking, and exhibiting amnesia type symptoms: incoherent speech, lack of recognition of loved ones, and the inability to answer simple questions. Though Emily authorized tests and scans to try to learn the cause of her sudden psychosis, the results were inconclusive. Tony wondered if Claire could be faking it, trying to save herself from prison. He knew she didn’t mean to pull that trigger. It was an accident. Tony claimed it was self-defense. When he spoke with her, he planned to reassure her and explain that with her lawyers and all the resources that Rawlings’ legal could provide, she’d be cleared in no time.

The consequences of Tony’s decisions continued to harm his family. He swore that Claire would never again be subjected to the inhumanity of a jail cell. Then he’d think about Nichol. It broke his heart to think of their daughter without her mother or father. It wasn’t right.

From Roach’s monitoring of the Vandersols’ cell phones, Tony knew that Emily was caring for his daughter. That wouldn’t last. Tony intended to bring her home with him immediately. He’d hire a nanny to help until Claire was better. First and foremost, Tony wanted to get to Claire.

As Eric weaved through traffic, Tony barked orders into his cell phone, telling Patricia to get recommendations for reputable nannies. He also touched base with Roach, happy to be able to contact him directly. Tony, too, told Roach that he should leave town. Of course he refused.

“I’m not done with my job. I don’t leave unfinished work.”

Tony grinned. “I know I’m not the appreciative type, but Claire is. So, for right now, I guess it’s my job. Thanks for everything. She was definitely right about you.”

Eric pulled the car up to the front of the hospital.

“You don’t need to babysit me,” Tony said to Brent.

“Yes, I do. I know how you feel about the Vandersols and how they feel about you. You don’t need any more charges filed against you.”

Tony shrugged. Brent was probably right. They made their way up to Claire’s room. As the elevator doors opened, a woman with short dark hair stepped forward. “Mr. Anthony Rawlings?”

“Yes.”

She reached in her bag and pulled out a large envelope. Handing it to Tony, she said, “You have been served.”

“What the hell?” Tony asked in disbelief as the woman entered the elevator, the doors closed, and Brent and Tony were left staring at the envelope.

“Let me see that,” Brent said as he reached for the envelope and opened the flap.

Tony moved to Brent’s shoulder so they could both read the words. It didn’t take long for the meaning to be clear. Tony staggered. “A restraining order, for both Claire and Nichol? They can’t be serious! I’m going to see my wife.”

“No, Tony. You can’t afford to break this order. It’ll land you back in jail.”

“I don’t give a damn about some piece of paper. I haven’t seen Claire since the shooting. No one is keeping me away from her or Nichol,” he added.

Brent reached for Tony’s arm.

“Don’t do it, Brent. Don’t try to stop me.” Tony’s dark eyes glared.

“I’m doing what needs to be done. I’m going to bet when we turn that corner, there are policemen outside of her room. Husband or not, Anthony Rawlings or not, you can’t walk through a restraining order. The day is young. Let me find out the allegations and why this was granted. We’ll get it overturned, hopefully today.”

Through clenched teeth, Tony seethed. “Get me out of here before I add murder to my list of charges. So help me God, if I see my in-laws…”

Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

—Lord Acton

The night before, Brent had ventured further into Meredith’s book. It wasn’t that he wanted to know the details, but with everything that was happening, he believed that he needed to know. The recent memories of the three of them, Claire, Nichol, and Tony in his kitchen and living room, gave Brent the strength to read with an open mind. It was a luxury not held by many. Other than Roach, Courtney, and himself, Brent wasn’t sure of anyone else who knew how far the Rawlingses’ relationship had progressed.

My Life as It Didn’t Appear: Chapter 2…

I couldn’t remember what happened, but I knew it had. I knew that somehow and for some reason, my life had changed. My body ached, each movement evidence of the atrocities I suffered, atrocities cloaked in veiled memories that my mind kept locked behind my conscious recollection. When I finally awoke, I didn’t move or make a sound, fearful of what or whom my actions may alert. I lay still for the longest time, utilizing my other senses. I heard silence. It’s true that it’s audible: a buzzing that drones on and on. While the blankets against my exposed skin were soft and comforting, I fought to deny the aroma of the bed where I lay. Instead, I drifted in and out of sleep. With time, my mind cleared and the calmness of the room gave me the strength to move.

Though the suite where I was kept was beautiful and lavish, I was too focused on survival and escape to notice the opulence. Despite my circumstances, I held onto false hopes that I could make both goals a reality. With each step on my tender legs or the sight of my marred reflection, the hope dimmed. The reality was suffocating: I’d been used, physically abused, and undeniably raped.

I remember thinking that things like this didn’t happen to real people. This was the storyline for TV shows, movies, and books—not for real life. Yet, for some reason…it was now my life.

I had vague memories of fighting, none which ended well. As the recollections began to surface, I understood with painful clarity that I was no match physically for the man I’d recently met. Not only had he overpowered me, but my reception of his advances in Georgia had also opened the door to his mental domination. With an overwhelming sense of defeat, I recalled surrendering, not having the strength to continue the fight. As I cried under the hot spray of a much-needed shower, I found it difficult to blame anyone but myself. I’d lived my life independently and safely by following my rules. In a matter of days, Anthony Rawlings had broken my rules and shattered my world. No longer was I safe and independent. At twenty-six years of age, I was huddled in the corner of the cavernous shower, petrified of what the next hour would bring, and terrified of the suite door opening.

The ambiguity of my future was numbing. All I knew with some certainty was that I was trapped in a large suite with windows that looked out for miles and miles onto a dormant forest of gray, leafless trees. No longer was I in Atlanta… but where was I? How did I get here? And… could I handle the answers?

The fear of learning my location was equally as upsetting as the prospect of seeing the dark eyes that I knew in the pit of my stomach would return to that opulent cell. I was a prisoner at the mercy of my captor. At some moment in those first few hours of wakefulness, I convinced myself that there’d been a mistake—a terrible mistake. Perhaps it was a misunderstanding or maybe a mistaken identity. No matter the reason, survival instincts told me that it wasn’t enough for me to believe there’d been a mistake: I needed to convince the man with the key to my freedom. Naively, I believed that was possible.

In what I later realized was a game of wits, I was informed of Mr. Rawlings’ impending return. I was told that he would come to my suite at 7:00 PM, and that I was to be dressed and ready to dine. It was as if each minute were more absurd than the one before. My brain truly had difficulty keeping up.

Instead of being left alone to my own devices, which in hindsight would have more than likely resulted in another painful lesson, I was assisted with dressing, fixing my hair, and makeup. The entire scenario was unreal and vulgar. I was being helped to make myself presentable for the man who’d kidnapped and abused me. As much as I planned to state—or even plead—my case of mistaken identity, in the pit of my stomach, I feared that with the help of the kind housekeeper, I was doing nothing more than preparing myself for more abuse.

The man who entered my suite that night was somewhere between the charismatic man at the bar and the monster I’d seen glimpses of during my abduction. Though intimidating, he was also debonair. It’s an odd combination, one that left me reeling with uncertainties. To say I was scared to face him would have been an understatement; however, after an afternoon of attempting to escape, I knew my only mode of freedom was through him. Though I tried to hide my trepidation, the physical cues were obvious: my entire body trembled merely at the sight of his black eyes.

Anthony Rawlings had the darkest eyes I’d ever seen. With time I learned to read the emotions that swirled in their abyss. But on that night, all I witnessed behind his eyes was an impenetrable hunger that I didn’t understand. How could I? I was figuratively walking the tightrope of my life.